Goodbye
by thecumbercollective1898
Summary: Moments of hysteria before Sherlock returns.


'Morning, Sherlock'

'Afternoon, Sherlock'

'Thinking about you, Sherlock'

'Goodnight, Sherlock'

It's been 3 years now, and still John texts the same number 4 times a day at the exact times. Sometimes however not always spelled correctly due to intoxication; but never forgotten.

John stared down at his phone for the hundredth time that night, awaiting a reply from his friend that would never come.

'You're an idiot John' the voices whispered,

'Even if he was alive, he wouldn't reply' John pursed his lips as he looked up at the bartender and ordered his seventh shot of tequila.

'But of course he's not alive, you killed him John. He jumped off that building because of you; you're a burden, such a terrible mate that you drove him into suicide' He downed the strong liquid in seconds as he waited for the effect to set in.

'He died, and you haven't even the respect to join him' John suddenly stood from his chair and clasped his hands over his ears,

"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP" He yelled angrily, shutting his eyes tightly as sweat started to form above his forehead.

"You should probably head home mate... Get some shut eye" the bartender whom John visited every other night suggested, looking worried. John opened his eyes slowly to look back at the man and nod before realizing how insane he must have come off. Everyone in the bar stared at him speechless as he rushed to the door, stumbling out. He waved for a cab before turning to crouch down onto his knees and letting his vomit escape his mouth unpleasantly. The cab slowed down beside John just as he wiped his mouth in disgust.

"Thanks" he mumbled to the cab driver as he climbed into the back seat.

"You better not be doing that in here..." He replied looking at John with pity. John nodded in sorrow with his eyes fixed on his shoes,

"221B Baker Street"

He walked up the stairs with his weight put against the stair railing before stumbling into Sherlock's old room and letting himself fall unto the bed.

'You disgust him, why are you in his room? You're so stupid' they whispered in his thoughts, scratching at his brain. John helped himself sit upright as he gazed around the room until he found an old book that sat on the desk across from him. He reached for it and flipped through the old, yellowed pages until he came to the middle of it where a small thin razor had been placed. John picked up the small item and fingered it as he fixed his eyes on the sharp jagged edge. He lay back against the wall, letting his legs relax and he closed his eyes, thinking about Sherlock's voice... His appearance... His presence. But nothing would come, and he felt nothing until the razor that he held was dragged across his left wrist with a hard force of his right hand.

John let out a small whimper as he continued to drag the cold metal across his scarred skin. Blood poured from the intentional wound, dripping onto Sherlock's bed as the voices hushed themselves.

John didn't bother to text Sherlock the next morning as he walked outside into the dusky street awaiting a cab. But instead of heading to a coffee shop or a pub, he decided to visit somewhere else... Somewhere he hadn't been in a long time. He gave the driver the directions and sat back in the car, watching the scenery pass by his window. As soon as the cab had stopped and John had payed the man, he looked up at the tall building in the exact location where he had watched his friend fall to his death.

Pedestrians walked by him not paying attention to John, not thinking a thing about him, or what he had been through as they fussed over their own lives.

Sherlock waited impatiently as he stared at his phone. This was the first time in years that John had been late texting him a 'Good morning' message. He started to panic when his phone hadn't buzzed, making it over an hour late. He knew that he couldn't text Mycroft to check on his friend because he was currently investigating a case where he wasn't aloud social access to other people. Sherlock grabbed for his coat, pulling it around his body before shoving his phone into his pocket and heading for the door.

When Sherlock walked into the empty flat, he became curious, but as soon as he noticed the blood marks stained into his sheets, he panicked.

John greeted a woman kindly with a fake smile as he walked into the building and started to climb up, and up, and up until he reached the top floor where he walked onto the roof for the first time.

When Sherlock had finally realized where he had gone, he ran into the street nearly getting hit by a car as he waved like a maniac for a cab that would never get to him soon enough.

John looked over the edge toward the ground as several thoughts raced through his mind,

'Go ahead, you deserve to die. Nobody would miss you anyway... If anything, the world would be better off without you' John's vision started to blur as he stepped back from the ledge. He started to sob as he sat on the curb of the rooftop.

"I'm so sorry..." he repeated in a whisper over and over again. He held his face in his hands as he shook violently with tears streaming effortlessly down his cheeks.

Sherlock shoved past a man as he darted towards the stairs with hundreds of thoughts scattering his brain.

John finally picked up the courage to step onto the ledge once again, pull out his phone and let his fingers tap against the screen. When John was satisfied with what he had written, he threw his phone to the side and turned around so that he was facing the door to the roof and stepped back so that he was half way off.

Sherlock bursted through the last door to the roof to finally see his friend after all those years.

Just for a second. Just for a small, precious second, they locked eyes with each other. They gave each other one last look that would be locked in their memories forever. They looked over each others faces which they have studied several times in the past, acknowledging each and every imperfect detail. John's train of thought was switched in an instant, he immediately wanted to run to his friend, to be warmed and comforted by him. He wanted to break down and cry with Sherlock, and tell him how much he really loves him. But before another thought could even enter his mind, it was over. Sherlock didn't even have time to process the situation when it had all ended; he hadn't even taken a breath of the outside air when John had disappeared from his sight.

When he

f

e

l

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Sherlock gave out a loud sharp cry, "NO"

He fell to his knees instantly and felt as if everything had happened in slow motion. His cell phone flew out from his pocket, hitting the roof hard as it buzzed and lit up showing the last text that John would ever send,

"This text message is... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they?

Leave a note..."


End file.
